


Holding On

by aranrhodinhimring



Series: Crossing the Helcaraxë [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Helcaraxë
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 09:52:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6074757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aranrhodinhimring/pseuds/aranrhodinhimring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had always tried to save each other, and on the Helcaraxë there are no second attempts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding On

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Tumblr, this has been somewhat tidied up. I've kept the Sindarin names because they were (and still pretty much are) what I'm most familiar with.

They feared the ice. Many argued it was madness, and Elenwë could not help but agree. Yet she saw too the rage kindled in the eyes of Fingolfin, of Turgon, the anger and despair mingled in Fingon’s face. The flames of those ships had burnt orange upon the horizon for many long hours, and the longer they burned the greater was her feeling of doom.

When at last the light of those blazes was gone, Fingolfin stood and addressed his host. ‘Betrayed we have been, by our kinsman no less, and great wrong we too have done in his name. The easy way has been taken from us, and so we must take the hard path, the long path. But take it we shall, and we will reach the shores of Endor once more, and there shall be a reckoning indeed with Fëanor for the wrong he has done us.’ He paused and looked out among his gathered people, and Elenwë was struck again, how strange and solitary he looked without Anairë’s fierce, practical strength at his side. But it had not been so unusual, not of late. 

'We will search for other passages across the sea, but if we should find none, I say this now: we will brave the icy dangers of the Helcaraxë if at the last we must, for we are strong and valiant and there is no want for courage among us. Let us leave now, and find our ways from the land of Valinor that once was our home, to the lands of Endor, that will be our home.’ 

There was no cheer, but none turned aside, none spoke any misgivings, and so they left, walking out into the bleak land to face a future they could not even conceive of. Idril was close, looking young and frightened, but there was a set to her mouth that was all her father, determination in the face of fear. Elenwë felt a sudden flush of pride in her daughter, blooming warm inside her chest, and despite everything she looked over to Turgon, beside his father and siblings, and smiled. The look he gave her, the quirked eyebrow and little twist of his mouth, it gave her hope, let her think that regardless of the burnt ships, of their dispossession … well. Perhaps it would not be such a hard path, and even if it were, hardship could be worth the reward in the end. She had learned that from Nerdanel, watching her friend carve into stone with a frustrated furrow on her brow and grazes across her fingers.

*

They wandered long, through desolate lands, and they were moving north long before anyone chose to comment on it. The chill in the air became a chill that seeped through clothes, and they could taste the ice-damp on the wind.

It was Elenwë who elected to speak of it. Turgon knew it had been on her mind, he always knew, but she managed to surprise even him when she spoke directly to Fingolfin. They were sitting around the fire: she and Turgon and Idril, Fingon and Fingolfin and Aredhel and Finrod and Argon. Sitting, eating, though it was not enough food to leave them feeling full. That was a rare occurrence.

“We’re going to cross the Helcaraxë,” she said, without really meaning to. It should have been a question but it wasn’t.

There was a long moment where all was quiet but for the crackling of the flames, and she could feel Turgon beside her, the line of his arm pressed up against her side, firm and warm and secure. Fingolfin looked at her, and for a moment she couldn’t read his expression, but she thought it might have been sad. Then, he gave a long, slow nod.

“Yes. I’ve been … not putting off. Holding back, perhaps. Hoping we might find another way. But we won’t.” He looked out, away from them, across the host. “I will be telling everyone tomorrow.” A glance back, and he didn’t hold her eyes that time, flickering his gaze across each one of his children instead. He must fear for them, she thought. As she did for Idril. “It will not be easy.”

*

It was not easy. The growing chill seeped not only through their clothes, but into their bones, leeched the warmth from their blood. Little lived on the terrible frozen edges of the Grinding Ice, and food was scarce. They all became used to a hollow feeling in the pit of their stomach. Elenwë always added some of her portion to Idril’s. Turgon knew she did it; they had hissed arguments about it, pressed together under blankets, trying to warm each other, trying not to wake anyone who might actually achieve rest. 

Water there was in plenty, but the ice and snow had to be melted to get it, and in the frozen wastes it was a long, arduous process. Often they travelled many days in one direction only to retrace their steps, finding the way impassable. 

Idril, always a little quiet, became even more reticent, though when she was not with Elenwë or Turgon she could often be found with Riellë. Elenwë was glad, but she stayed close nevertheless. Now more than ever she found she could not let those she loved out of her sight easily. Only scant days into their journey someone had slipped, fallen … kept falling, further than even the keenest eyed among them could see. They had all kept close since. She felt as she had when Idril was still a tiny child, worried for her fragile daughter, fearful of what might happen if she chanced to take her eyes away for even a moment. And that was in the days of peace and light. There was much more to fear now.

She had a rare moment alone with Turgon, many long days, weeks perhaps, after they started the ice crossing. Camp was made; they were too tired to continue on. Their pace was not fast; they had to be too cautious, and the ice was like a maze. The slow pace was more exhausting than a faster one would have been; the concentration required, the constant anxiety a drain.

Nestled against him, his arms about her, she tilted her head up, back, trying to look at him. “What do you think will happen, when we reach Endor?”

They always said 'when'. To say 'if’ was to curse themselves, to entice the doom laid upon them all. No, it was always 'when’.

She could feel Turgon sigh beneath her, the lift and sink of his chest, the warm mist of his breath against her hair, her head. “I don’t know. My father … he is very angry. I do not think it will go well for Fëanor when they meet again. Nor for my father.” She felt the press of his lips against her skull, through her hair. “But Endor is the place of our awakening. I do not think it can be all wrong there. We will find happiness. Even if it is hard won. And,” she heard the sudden smile in his voice, the warmth, “I shall always have you by my side, and our lovely Idril. No, it will not be so terrible.”

*

The terrain became more perilous the further they travelled. They came to understand why it was called the Grinding Ice. The terrible groaning, the screeching, all the odd sounds, it came to grate, to interrupt sleep. Tempers frayed. Turgon argued with Fingon. Elenwë could guess from the looks upon their faces that it was about their cousins. She didn’t say anything when Turgon stamped over (as much as any of them dared to, anymore), just touched him on the shoulder, a barely-there brush of her fingers against him.

The going became harder, the air colder still. Some succumbed. No one slept alone anymore. Those who did perished.

The winds had picked up, cut through them like scythes through grass. It brought tears to Elenwë’s eyes, but they froze to her cheeks before they could fall. Turgon wiped them away with gloved fingers.

A sound. The grinding, always the grinding, but louder, closer than it had been before. Different.

It happened in a second, a moment. The crack, the shifting beneath their feet. A sheet of ice fell away, glinting cold in the starlight, down into the chasm that was opening before them, under them. Someone screamed, and fell away. The Turgon cried out beside her, and the ice beneath him cracked, splintered and fell into nothing, Turgon slipping with it. 

Elenwë did the only thing she could, twisting, grabbing for him. There was no time for thought, only instinct, and every instinct she had was screaming _save him! Hold onto him!_

Somehow she managed it, managed to catch his wrist. It yanked her down, so she slithered through the ice herself, gasping at the shock of it, as her shoulder was wrenched and the breath knocked from her lungs. Her hand scrabbled for purchase, found nothing. She could see the knife, the little slim pocketknife that Turgon kept tucked alongside his vambrace. She grabbed, pulled, swung her arm around and slammed it deep, deep into the ice.

It was enough.

She clung there, gasping. Her world seemed focus on to points: the hand keeping them tethered to the ice and the hand clutching Turgon, the only thing keeping him from falling.

It was Fingon who slipped after them, careful, slow, speaking words she could barely hear, never mind understand. He pulled her up, and then he helped take Turgon’s weight, and between them they pulled him up too, and for long minutes they crouched there, precarious, huddled together panting.

* 

Later, when they had made camp, Turgon pulled her to him and she pressed her face against his and whispered, “I almost lost you. You almost fell." 

"No. You saved me. Elenwë, you saved me.”

She managed a smile, pale and wan, but still a smile. “Your turn next.”

“Always.”

*

Except Turgon missed his turn. Elenwë fell, and there was no one to catch her.

****

Years later, decades later, centuries later, Elenwë stands in the sun upon the shores of Valinor. She watches the boat sail in from the east. She can see her daughter in the distance.


End file.
